Grande Dames

Any of you who are friends with me on Facebook know I recently ran a 5K, in costume, for Hardy Girls Healthy Women. I set a lofty goal and, in an attempt to provide some incentive, offered whoever bid $250 the chance to choose our (Jared, Sullivan and my) costumes. When a donation came through from my sister-in-law with a note saying how interested my brother was in costume selection, I was a little bit nervous (he's clever) and a little bit excited (he's clever). After a text came through with a photo of a costume I won't describe here, he told me I should dress up as Grandma.

I'll be honest, dressing as a golfer wasn't what I was expecting him to choose. I thought of the two big work events I would be at in costume, putting the pressure on myself to be something elaborate and creative. I thought about making other costumes for my family. I thought about asking my brother if I could back out of my promise.

I don't remember what changed my mind or when, but at some point, it (finally) occurred to me what an incredible choice that was. It was my brother (and most likely sister-in-law had a hand in it, too) paying attention to the work I do and making a very thoughtful decision. It didn't matter that a golfer costume wasn't going to take a ton of sewing, makeup, feathers or brightly-colored fabric. Instead, I got to wear the cross my grandmother gave me when I graduated college, the thin, gold T with the tiniest of diamonds my grandfather had given her before he could "afford a real diamond." I got to wear the rosary bracelet with wrapped pewter rosebuds from a childhood of Catholic school. And when my cousin saw my picture on Facebook and said I looked like her, my eyes spilled over.

My grandmother was one of my favorite people ever.  She was funny and smart and fair and colorful. She was exceptional at math. She wore coral-orange nail polish on her toes. No one, not even my culinary-ily talented husband, will ever cook like her - even her toast tasted amazing. At her funeral, when I was in the beginning of my pregnancy with Henry, I spoke about all these little things I loved about Gram. But what I miss the most are her stories. How she grew up on a farm and used to eat tomato sandwiches in a field so often that she hated tomatoes as an adult. How her brothers made her hold targets while they shot BB guns. How she found out french kissing didn't cause pregnancy.

Thinking about the costume the past couple of weeks, I found myself thinking of her stories and telling Henry about her. I underestimated my brother. He didn't just give me a silly costume he could laugh at, he thought of a hardy woman from our life and reminded me to remember her.

Then, two days ago, another hardy woman from my San Diego life passed away. Dru was my board

president in my first executive director position and we'd spent a lot of time together. As I learned about her life, her stories fascinated me as well. 15 or so years younger than Gram, Dru talked about living in Australia, teaching in England and adventures with her husband and sons, the loves of her life.  I met her gianormous dogs. She wore lime green like no other.She shared a pomegranate with me. And she trusted me. While I was younger than her children, she treated me like an adult and listened to me thoughtfully. She respected when I advocated for myself and allowed herself to be influenced, which is a strength many don't have. Dru cared about me, my children and my husband, even adding his name as a character in one of her books. I read four of her books and marveled at her character development and plot abilities.

When I applied for my current job, I listed Dru as a reference. Over Facebook, she sent me a note saying she'd said good things about me. She ended the note with "Let me know when you get it." It was a few months after that I read on Facebook her diagnosis of Stage 4 lung cancer. Through treatment, she continued to write and I craved her blogs. She wrote about being pissed off about dying. The disorientation, the disbelief, the refocusing that happens. Kinship. Towards the end, she was dictating her blogs to her husband, even stories of barely being able to breathe. Never stopping writing. Never losing her voice.

And even though our relationship was through Facebook since I moved, I feel Dru's influence, like Gram's, in my structure. The walls of my veins, the marrow of bones, the cartilage of my ears. These women, the grande dames of my life, are ever-present reminders of my worth. Their stories make my stories important. Through them I see adventures and strength and family. Their passings leave many people behind who will mourn them in millions of tiny, blinking moments of memory as long as we are around writing our own adventures.  And when I talk with girls and women through my job, they will be the stories I share of "I knew a woman who..."

Nurse No More

Several weeks ago, I stopped nursing. No pumping, no special bras, no frozen bags in the freezer. It

feels very strange. Since I started at my job in January, I'd been pumping a couple times a day. In my office, while reading articles online or signing donation Thank You letters. In my car listening to an audio book. In the Trader Joe's parking lot. To the point where a friend suggested I keep track of all my bizarre pumping spots and write and illustrate a book. (This still may happen so no one is allowed to steal this idea! :) ) Point being, breastfeeding is no part-time job.

When Sullivan turned one, I was happy to offer him cow's milk and he was happy to take it. After a couple weeks of sporadic nursing and mutual frustration over having my chest beaten on (me) and my chest not responding fast enough (him), we decided to consciously uncouple. Even though it's been a month or so, I still have "phantom let-downs" when my hand rushes to my chest and I worry I'll soon have two wet spots on my shirt. The nightmare of putting Sullivan to bed with an unsatisfying nursing experience has vanished and he lets me lay him down after a book or two, with his Curious George tucked under his arm and his Rock-a-by Baby: Journey CD tinkling in the corner.

And now he is this walking, grunting toddler with a callus on his thumb from sucking. There are so many moments when he looks completely unlike himself. His face is leaning out from the walking and his eyes, although still bright and blue, are settling into his face with a seriousness I couldn't have predicted. His hair is still sparse, but long and full enough to stand out from the back of his head after a nap (although my mom admits to fluffing it up on purpose) and occasionally a Dennis-the-Menace curl will flair up on top. His elbows are growing pointier and his wrists aren't quite as doughy.

Then there's the personality. More definite than snow in Maine. He watches his brother carefully. When it's just the two of them, they play and laugh and co-exist (or at least that's what it sounds like from outside their bedroom door). When an adult is in the room, the competition begins. Sullivan brings over a book to read and once he's climbed up and settled into the nook of a lap with his warm head resting against a chest and his thumb in his mouth, suddenly all Henry wants in the world is to read that book from the other side of that lap. And Sullivan will have none of it. Regardless of the size of the lap. Or, vice versa, on a rare occasion when Henry is still next to me, Sullivan comes barreling from across a room with jealous arms raging, smacking his brother on the knee or toe or closest appendage. Like these mini-dictators don't live with four adults who adore them and shower them with unhealthy amounts of attention. :)

Notice the hair.

They will eat dinner together, though. Sullivan refuses "baby food," shoving our hands away with more confidence than any adult I've met. He is a big boy and he wants to be treated as such. We set up a Henry & Sullivan table in the dining room and Sullivan alerts us to the grumblings of his belly by pulling out a chair, hoisting himself up and slapping a hand on the wood table. If we aren't picking up what he's putting down, he'll look back and growl. He is not a fan of the speaking. He prefers to point and grunt. Occasionally, when we just aren't getting it, he'll throw out the first sound (Bb-bb = book, Dd dd = dog, etc). If our response is still inadequate, we are beyond frustrating and deserve the obscenely, dramatic meltdown that ensues. Crumbled face. Real tears. Paused breathing leading to the cry that pierces the center of your heart.

Until he sees someone eating a cracker/donut/anythinghedoesn'thaveinhishand and it's grunt and point again.

Here's the pointing - imagine the grunt. 

What happened to discussions? Discuss.

I've started several blogs (some in my head, some a few lines typed) since my last post which seems FOREVER ago. My challenge lately has been not making everything about my job. It's not that I don't do tons of fun things with my family, like this:

and this:

and this:

But, I spend the majority of my time at work. I enjoy my work. While simultaneously wishing Hardy Girls didn't have to exist (meaning there's no systemic ridiculousness to fight against and girls are societal-ly taught to be whole, creative, smart humans who kind, smart, emotionally free men respect and value as equals). The framework I look through at work is hard to remove at home - like contact lenses that have melded into my eyes. I've become obnoxious (/informative, my family doesn't say this, but I'll speak for them on this point. :) ) to watch TV with.

And I read like eating steak with an iron deficiency. I read How to be Black by Baratunde Thurston and I keep talking about it everywhere. The author is hilarious and so is the book, but funny in that way that satire is where you start laughing and end up feeling a little (or a lot) sad that jokes can be made because the things they are joking about are true. I started it before Ferguson and finished it after. Several theories have been rolling around in my head since then. It's like when Jared learned the word "furtive" and he attached it to everything. Furtive eating. Furtive walking. Furtive radio. Or when you purchase new, favorite article of clothing and wear it with everything. I've been trying these theories on and layering them with old thoughts. Experimenting with understanding. Coloring my perspective.

I read the Skimm (one of the best things to happen in my life) and find myself saying, "HOW ARE WE STILL TALKING ABOUT THIS??" For instance, gay marriage. I'd say this should have been legal years ago, but that would validate it ever being not legal. Two adults. Two consenting adults. Or how about women's reproductive health, which should include general, preventive care but now just equals abortion. The Supreme Court decided this BEFORE I WAS BORN. Then again, let's not pretend Hobby Lobby isn't ten steps back. And Ferguson. I just read a statistic that 70%+ of white people surveyed don't believe Ferguson is about race. Um... okay. I mean, really, what do you say to that?

Anyway, this isn't supposed to be a rant. I was talking with my boss this week and she shared a story about her daughter. Her daughter had asked her for something she was inclined to immediately shut down. However, putting aside her own fear and judgement, she let her daughter argue her case. She talked about how important it is to show our children they can influence others and adults can be influenced. Kids can advocate for themselves, thinking through their needs and wants, and share those to varying degrees of achieving desired outcomes. But can realize that we aren't, as parents, tyrannical gate keepers to Yes Land.

Because since when did discussion get to be such a bad thing. An indulgent thing to be avoided and only used by academics. I grew up arguing discussing with my dad. And I hope my boys do the same. Of course, it's completely mandatory to teach them critical thinking skills, it is sometimes near debilitating to raise them once they get those. I just don't know what I'll do if they take up residence in Myopia (which happens to be in black and white and resembles The Handmaid's Tale in case you aren't familiar with it).

When I think of scaffolding, supporting, helping each other out, I remember the summer/fall I spent working in a flower shop in Spokane. The floral designer/arranger, Paul, was a quiet guy with a sly sense of humor and an almost pastoral demeanor. Unruffle-able. My job was to clean the buckets, green up the vases and answer phones. Sensing my appreciation of art and color, Paul would throw tips in my direction the way the best teachers do, without you even knowing. After a month or so, he suggested I try making an arrangement. He told me how much I had to work with and a general color scheme. I, despite having spent a month shoving greenery stems into oasis, went straight for the flowers. Gerber daisies, asltroemeria, and dahlias. I measured them against the vase, clipped their ends and put them in the water. They tipped and dipped, leaning over the sides like scattered pick-up sticks. I tried to prop them up to lean on each other (how I imagine the first teepee assembly might have gone) before looking to Paul. He was casually arranging another bouquet. "They need support," he said, slicing off leaves without looking. "The greens make a lattice." I removed the flowers and wove the fern stems with green-leafed branches and sticks with berries. When I put the flowers back in, on top of this network, they stood like exclamation points.

We can't expect people or things to just stand up on their own. Even flowers, symbols of growth and beauty, need a system of life beneath them. And we're not just talking about "broken, lazy" flowers. Even the tallest, strongest, hardiest stems require support. My own greenery is made up of family and books and education and friendship and art and travel and purpose. For people who don't have access to one or any of these things, that's one less leaf to prop a petal. One more strain on the flower's trunk. Our vases are different, our stems vary, but it isn't a question of if that support is needed, but how and where and what. And how are we to know any of this without discussion? If we don't talk to each other, we can say racism is gone. We can tell women to lean in and request raises. We can say people are taking advantage of the system. But you just try watching a lone flower splayed in a massive vase and tell me you don't want to do something.